


A Waltz of Snowflakes

by Fountain_Quill



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fountain_Quill/pseuds/Fountain_Quill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She doesn’t see the man waltzing in time with the snow outside breeze past her window."</p>
<p>(In which Jack and Elsa meet at last.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Waltz of Snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> This was a play with words I did a few years back, and it was rather fun to do. Also my first foray into the 5+1 world!

The wind is swirling outside her bedroom window, snowflakes dancing delicately within the storm. Despite the glass pane separating her from the world on the other side of the window, Elsa can feel the power within her veins, calling her to rush outside and join in the maelstrom that exists a mere arm’s length away. 

Her father has forbidden her to use her magic, has told her to “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show” so many times before, and while Elsa (thinks she) understands why, she doesn’t believe that her father knows how much difficulty that task presents. She hurt Anna, and that’s (not what she meant to do, if only Anna had slowed down, had listened) not good, and despite what her father says about her seclusion from the rest of the world being the best choice, the best way for her to learn to control her powers, observing the snowfall outside makes her (need to rush into the blizzard, add her own creations to the chaos) doubt her father’s assertions. 

She rests her chin in her hands and watches the snow gather in drifts outside, accumulating in front of her eyes. She is enthralled by the way the snowflakes respond to the wind that is (twisting, spinning, looping) whistling outside and presses her nose longingly against the cold glass.

Her father’s voice sounds, and she turns regretfully away from the window, leaving a lingering ice pattern tracing its way across the pane. 

She doesn’t see the man waltzing in time with the snow outside breeze past her window. 

ØØØ

Hurling a snowball deep into the recesses of a canyon, Jack frowns after its descent. It’s been fifty years since (he’s last talked to a human being, at least he thinks, because the time is just blending together and no one has been able to see him yet) the Man in the Moon has told him that his name is Jack Frost. 

He’s (angry and bitter and lonely) a little bit bored and has kicked up enough snowstorms to leave a good few feet over numerous villages that populate this part of the north. Perching in a high branch of a spruce, he surveys the snow that is falling lightly around him and sighs deeply into the silence. He hopes very dearly that there is (some reason for him to be here, because what if there’s not and he’s just stuck living out his lonely, miserable existence for centuries on end) going to be something to occupy him in the days to come, because with summer arriving in his usual haunts, there’s a lot less snow to bring. 

He waves his staff and creates a swirl of snowflakes that fall lazily to the ground. If only he knew his destiny (because at least then he’d have a purpose to strive for instead of dwelling in this constant pointlessness) like he knew the fate of the snow, the snow that falls and sits and melts and starts the cycle over year after year after year.

He decides it’s time to make a few more blizzards before he sets off for the Southern Hemisphere. He calls the winds to him and takes to the skies. 

In his haste to leave, he misses the young teenager twirling in the snowflakes that he has left behind. 

ØØØ

She just can’t help herself; she’s been stuck inside that awful room for days where (the fear takes over her mind and she just replays the moment when she hurt Anna over and over and Elsa eventually cries herself to sleep) there’s nothing to do and she’ll go crazy if she spends one more day in the room.

So she sneaks to the door one night when she knows her parents are visiting a neighboring kingdom and peeks outside and makes sure that none of the servants are scurrying about (keeping an eye on her) finishing their duties. She grins when she sees the corridors are empty and dashes out into the hall, spinning and curtseying and (picturing herself far, far away from this darkened palace that has become her prison) dancing with imaginary suitors. Humming to herself, she closes her eyes and lets her imagination push her to where it will, laughing quietly when it settles on the ballrooms of the City of Love which she has (always dreamt of going to, on the arm of a handsome man who loves her for who she is and who loves traveling as much as she does) heard of but never seen. 

Quiet footsteps sound on the staircase behind her and Elsa breaks from her thoughts and darts back into (her cold reality where love is but a word whispered on the wind and the icy breeze is her only embrace) her room, shutting the door softly behind her. 

She slows her breathing and lets her head rest against the door, waiting for the footsteps to pass before she dares move again. 

Outside her door, a young spirit frowns as he fails to find the source of the lovely humming he had been enjoying. 

ØØØ

The storm is brewing around him and Jack is cursing his luck as he surveys the damage around him. It’s been years since he (lost control like that, his pent-up frustration and anger being unleashed upon the surroundings) caused a blizzard this terrible, a furious, roaring beast that threatens to rip from his control and wreak havoc on everything in its path.

He clenches his fists to his temples and screams (“why won’t you just let me go”) into the dark of the night, trying to force his emotions out of his body through the shout so he can (grasp the frayed edges of his self-control and pretend like it’s all okay, because that’s what he’d like, for it all to be okay) calm down and gather the snowstorm back under his power, bring it back to a light powder falling. The winds whistle and shriek around him, (mocking him in all of his brokenness) lost and unsure of what to do without a gentle-handed guide. He twists amid the blasts of frigid air and all he can see is (the moon through the shattered remains of the ice, giving him the only shard of hope that he still clings to) white all around him, threatening to choke him.

He is gasping back sobs when a few snowflakes whisper and dance across his cheek, their icy kiss restoring him to clarity and (offering the tranquility that he’s been lacking these past few years, the solitude taking its toll) allowing him to reign the blizzard back in. 

As he reduces the storm to a quiet snowfall twirling merrily in the light breeze, he imagines that he hears a woman’s soft sigh a distance away. 

Leaving with the winds, he doesn’t take note of the pale woman on the mountaintop with snowflakes trailing from her fingertips.

ØØØ

Elsa surveys the snow-covered peaks from her balcony, inhaling the crisp air deeply. Everything around her feels (lonelier, emptier) cleaner, and she’s feeling more alive than she has in years. No longer is she trapped inside her (self, the ice freezing away at her insides as the bitterness and anger creeps through her body) room, staring wistfully out the window as the seasons pass. 

But despite the solitude, despite the freedom she hasn’t felt in over a decade, despite her ability to choose her own path, her heart (is still back in her bedroom, beating futilely at the locked windows and doors) sinks at the prospect of making a new life here on her own, no one to (ask her if she’s all right, if everything’s okay) talk to or laugh with. She descends the staircase with the grandeur she was taught for years, with all of the elegance and grace (that Anna certainly didn’t have, but Anna was always the opposite, the cheerful, lighthearted companion in all situations) that the queen of Arendale should have. 

Staring around at the majestic (empty) ballroom that she has created, Elsa is struck by the sudden isolation of it all and (how is this any different than her room back in the castle) and begins to weep, crumpling to the floor as the tears drip down her face.

The crying blocking all else out, she doesn’t hear the patter of quiet feet on the balcony above her or the muted gasp of awe at the icy palace.

Nor does she see the man at the top of the stairs start in her direction, only to falter as he sighs heavily and flits away with a gust of wind.

ØØØ

Jack has never been to a ball. He grew up in a poor village, where (dancing giddily with his sister was enough) having food on the table was considered lavish. He has seen his fair share of dances over the years, be they royal, wedding, or holiday, but never has he (had the courage to attend one because no one ever sees him anyway) desired the extravagance and elegance that accompanies such events.

Perhaps it is due to the winds seeming a little pushier, the snowstorms a bit more brusque with him tonight, the Man in the Moon slightly more standoffish, that Jack confiscates a suit from a nobleman’s vast wardrobe and whisks away to the nearest ball. This one is following the wedding of a lovely couple who have quite the past together, from what he has heard. He flits between women and asks (“Can you see me?”) if they’d like to dance and of course, none of them answer because (why should it be any different, no one will ever believe in him or see him and he should just get used to the idea) they’ve all got handsome men by their sides. 

There’s one last woman, the sister of the bride, and she’s beautiful and shy and (the woman he wants to marry, the woman he can picture himself kissing every night and showing the world and loving until eternity ends) adorned in a gown that looks as though it’s made of snowflakes. 

He steps closer to her and sweeps into a deep bow and says in his playfully serious voice, (“Will you marry me?”) “Would you like to dance?”

And she turns and takes in his bare feet and staff and royal attire, and smiles and says, (“Yes.”) “Yes.”


End file.
